


The Caught Out of Time Job

by zinke



Category: Leverage, Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this, hiring someone like me to do her dirty work for her, when it’s perfectly clear you’re capable of doing the job yourself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caught Out of Time Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gabolange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabolange/gifts).



Fowlcraig  
Papa Westray  
Orkney Islands, Scotland  
March 2008

 

By the time Sophie’s managed to shut the heavy oak door against the gale force winds outside, virtually every set of eyes in the pub are on her.

“So much for low-profile,” she mutters sourly even as she forces her lips into a bright, engaging smile. “Gentlemen,” she greets airily, throwing back her hood and brushing the rain from the sleeves of her Burberry coat. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

One of the patrons – a particularly craggy looking man in frayed coveralls – grunts in response. The others simply stare a moment before returning to their drink and discussions of last night’s football match.

“Works every time,” she murmurs, giving herself a mental pat on the back.

Unbuttoning her coat, Sophie makes her way across the cozy, dimly lit space to the bar to take a seat next to the one person who’s been pointedly ignoring her since she arrived. “Come here often?”

The individual sitting next to her spares Sophie only the briefest of glances. “Only when I feel like taking in a bit of the local color.”

“Funny.” Sophie casts a pointed glance at the other woman’s heavy, mud-spattered boots, barn jacket and tweed pageboy cap. “I thought you _were_ the local color, Pernelle.”

Her contact huffs out an irritated sigh. “I’m assuming you asked me here for a reason?”

“You could say that,” Sophie answers once she’s ordered herself a finger of the local single malt. Reaching into her pocket, she places a small, string-and-paper wrapped package on the bar between them just as the bartender returns with her drink. Sophie glances up to thank him – and when she looks back no more than a second or two later the parcel is gone; the only evidence of its whereabouts a slight bulge in the other woman’s pocket that hadn’t been there before.

Impressed, Sophie leans back and studies Pernelle for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“I suppose.”

“What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this, hiring someone like me to do her dirty work for her, when it’s perfectly clear you’re capable of doing the job yourself?”

“Avoiding unwanted complications,” Pernelle says after a long and pregnant pause.

“Complications such as…having to steal from yourself, perhaps?” Sophie leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “The photographs on the desk were a bit of a dead giveaway.”

“How did you—”

“While the good doctor was off collecting your...” Sophie waves a dismissive hand at the lump in Pernelle’s pocket, “doohickey for me, I had a chance to look around. By the way: the Courbet over the fireplace? Simply stunning.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Sophie brushes off the threat with a wave of her hand. “Oh not to worry; I make it a point to never steal from anyone who might have the time and resources to eventually track me down. Unwanted complications and all that,” she adds with a wink. “Now granted; at the moment your access to the means is somewhat limited. But time?” Sophie stops to fix Pernelle with a shrewd look. “We both know you have more of that than anyone else in the world.”

“We do, do we?”

“The photographs on the desk: dead giveaway, remember? Snapshots of you chumming it up with Einstein, Teddy Roosevelt, Amelia Earhart; and in every single one of them looking not a day older than you do now. And then, of course, there’s your name. Pernelle: given name of the wife of Nicholas Flamel, a 14th century alchemist who, even before J.K.Rowling made a wizard out of him, was long believed to have discovered the secret of eternal life. An obscure homage, if a bit hyperbolic.” Sophie cocks her head and grins. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Magnus?”

The stony look she gets in response is all the confirmation Sophie needs.

“A little piece of advice from a seasoned professional: the next time you need to create an alias and disappear, keep yourself out of it. Otherwise your past becomes _their_ past and well…we both know what happens then, now, don’t we?” Sophie says with a wink.

“I suppose we do,” Magnus says in a tone that is equal parts consternation and approval. “I trust I can count on your discretion in this matter?” she asks, reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a thick wad of bills and slides the money across the pockmarked surface of the bar.

“Of course.” Slipping the money into her purse, Sophie takes a last sip of her drink and rises to her feet. “Besides, who would believe a story like that, coming from a silly old grifter like me?”

Magnus gives her a wry smile. “Who indeed?”

“It does seem to be a bit of a waste, though.”

“What?”

“You. Here. Hiding out in the middle of nowhere while your life – however long it may be – passes you by.”

“I prefer to think of it as biding my time.” Magnus holds out her hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Devereaux. And do please give my regards to Mr. Ford the next time you see him.”

It takes a moment for Sophie to figure out who the other woman is referring to. “Ford— _Nathan Ford_?” Sophie shakes her head. “How did you—?”

“You’re not the only one who makes a point of doing her homework.”

“Then you’d know that Nate’s penchant for trying – and failing – to arrest me hasn’t exactly left us on speaking terms.”

“Oh, not to worry.” Magnus stands and pulls her cap down low over her eyes. “You will be soon enough.” And with a parting mischievous grin, she sweeps past Sophie and out into the blustery night.

“Bartender,” Sophie calls out, her gaze lingering on the pub door even as she shrugs out of her coat and resumes her seat at the bar, “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind. And this time, make it a bloody double.”

 

*fin.*

**Author's Note:**

> A while back, I asked for fic prompts in the hopes that something might give my writing mojo the kick in the pants it’s desperately needed. gabolange asked for: _Sophie Devereaux and Helen Magnus. The rest is up to you_. Hopefully what I’ve come up with will serve as a bit of pick-me-up after what sounds like a less-than-stellar week. A big thank you to phdelicious for the pinch-hit beta.


End file.
